The orange orb of Zong Hentian’s stolen Marrow-Flame bloodline pulsed in his grasp, a dying ember against the scarlet sky. His face, streaked with soot and blood, was a mask of desperation. “Cast aside the relic,” Zong Hentian rasped, his voice raw, “and the girl leaves these grounds alive.” Zong Xiaotian stared at the man who had stolen his future, who had murdered his mother, who now held the life of the only person he cared for as a bargaining chip. The air crackled with the demoness’s impatience, a low hum that vibrated against his ribs, urging him to unleash the power he now wielded. Yao Qingyu wanted her core, her resurrection. Zong Hentian wanted to live. The councilors, Feng included, watched motionless, faces gray as ash. “A fair trade,” Xiaotian said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual cheeky lilt. He took a single step, then another, the artifact clutched in his hand. “My damnation for her freedom.” The red glow from the sky intensified, painting the ruined courtyard in hues of blood and fire. Lin Muxi, still bound to the stake, stirred, her blindfolded eyes turning vaguely in his direction. A faint tremor ran through her body, a fragile, almost imperceptible shake. “Xiaotian…” Her voice was a whisper, carried on the wind, a plea he couldn’t decipher. He ignored the demoness’s delighted purr from within the miniature tower. He ignored the triumphant glint in the patriarch's eyes. He walked with a limp, his posture slumped, the picture of a defeated prodigal son returning to the fold. His gaze locked onto the pulsing orb in Zong Hentian’s grip, the remnant of his stolen heritage. He reached the center of the courtyard, just a few paces from his father, close enough to smell the scorched silk of Hentian’s robe, the metallic tang of his blood. The surviving councilors shifted on the stones, glances darting between the two men. “The shrine, then,” Zong Hentian prompted, impatience twitching across his face. He extended his hand, beckoning. “Be quick, boy. We haven’t all day for your dramatics.” Xiaotian smirked. It was a faint, almost invisible curve of his lips, a mere ghost of his usual arrogance. But it was there. And it promised ruin. “Dramatics?” Xiaotian scoffed, his voice suddenly sharp. “Old man, you haven’t seen a single dramatic thing yet.” Before Zong Hentian could react, before the word “wait” could leave his lips, Xiaotian moved. It was not the graceful Void Step, but a savage burst of speed fueled by years of bitterness. He launched himself forward, a blur of shadow and reclaimed power. His fist, knuckles wrapped around the bronze tiers, struck Zong Hentian’s outstretched arm in a violent collision. A splintering crunch echoed across the flagstones as Hentian’s forearm buckled sideways. The sect master gasped. The fiery teardrop, the heart of Xiaotian’s stolen lineage, flew loose from limp fingers, arcing through the air like a tiny sun. Xiaotian snatched the fire mid-air, the blistering heat charring his palm. He didn’t absorb it. Didn't allow it to merge with his own burgeoning power. He pivoted directly toward Lin Muxi. He moved again, a whirlwind of motion, closing the distance to the stake where Muxi was bound. The councilors cried out in panic. Zong Hentian, clutching his ruined arm, screamed, a primal sound of fury and betrayal. “What are you doing?!” “Saving what you tried to destroy!” Xiaotian roared back, his voice thick with raw emotion. He reached Muxi, his fingers tearing away the blindfold that covered her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing irises that were still clouded, milky white with the spiritual blight that drained her. With a savage, deliberate motion, Xiaotian pressed the blazing Marrow-Flame core against Muxi’s eyes. A shriek tore from Muxi’s throat, a burst of agony that made the onlookers flinch. Smoke curled from her delicate skin as the demonic bloodline, the essence of his power, forcibly fused with her cursed biology. Her body convulsed, arcing at the stake, muscles tensing, then relaxing, then tensing again. “Fool! What have you done?!” Yao Qingyu’s voice erupted from the miniature tiers, no longer seductive, but laced with wrath. “You deny me! You deny my true form!” The bronze structure in Xiaotian’s hand began to fracture. Not from the outside, but from within, a terrifying pressure building, twisting its ancient structure. Muxi continued to scream, a sound that tore at Xiaotian’s very soul, but he held firm, his gaze never leaving her face. The milky white of her eyes began to swirl, shifting, turning, fighting the invasive, purifying fire. Suddenly, Muxi’s screams cut off. Her body went limp, then stiffened again. The milky veil across her pupils cracked like fragile shell. Beneath them, a brilliant, vibrant emerald green began to bloom, swirling into depths of jade and moss, then finally settling into the rich, warm brown of perfectly healthy human eyes. They were wide, unfocused, then slowly, agonizingly, they began to move. To see. She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her gaze, clear and sharp, fixed on Xiaotian’s face. She saw the soot, the streaks of blood, the fierce defiance in his eyes. She saw the spire in his hand, now glowing an ominous red. “Xiaotian…” she whispered, her voice hoarse, but no longer filled with pain. It was filled with wonder. “I… I can see.” But there was no time for revelation. The Pagoda of Brazen Regrets burst open. Not into fragments, but into an amorphous, swirling vortex of shadows and raw, untamed demonic energy. Reality itself fractured around it. The scarlet sky above the Azure Ascendant Sect ripped open, not a tear, but a gaping maw. From the rent in existence, a colossal, terrifying figure began to emerge, vast beyond comprehension, its form a roiling tempest of darkness and blinding, eldritch light. Yao Qingyu. Her true, apocalyptic self, denied her full return, now manifested in a rage that would scour the mortal realms clean. Zong Hentian clutched his broken limb, mouth hanging open toward the sky. His empire was dust. His plans, annihilated. His power, gone. He was nothing but a broken, screaming husk. “No! My power! My sect!” he wailed, a pathetic, meaningless sound against the unfolding cataclysm. Xiaotian pushed Muxi behind him, his body a shield. The power of the demoness was immense, suffocating. The air itself shrieked as it was torn apart. He looked down at his grip. The relic had vanished, replaced by a single, jagged shard of black stone—all that survived of the cage. It was a broken sword, its edge chipped, its hilt rough. From the sky, a colossal hand, formed of pure shadow and crackling lightning, descended, blotting out the sun, aimed directly at the shattered grounds of the Azure Ascendant Sect. It was an end. The end of everything. Zong Xiaotian stood alone, facing oblivion, a broken sword clutched in his hand, ready to meet the dawn of the apocalypse.

The Brazen Regret